


Easy As Pie

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Baking, Banter, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Pie, Pining, Polyamory, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 18:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Upon learning of Jensen's pitiful lack of baking experience, Misha makes it his mission to pop Jensen's baking cherry, ulterior motives and a slightly unprofessional crush aside. Shenanigans (and surprising confessions) ensue.





	Easy As Pie

**Author's Note:**

> I deleted this a few months ago, just reposting so I can orphan it.

“Wait. Hold the fuck up. You’ve  _ never _ , not in, what, forty-three years--”

Jensen coughed, scrubbed the back of his neck. “Thirty-four.”

“Thirty-four, whatever--baked something from scratch? Ever?”

Sinking further into his chair as if he could bury himself within the leather cushions, Jensen shrugged. “Dude, I cook. I just don’t...bake.”

Misha crossed the trailer, hands on his hips, and stoically positioned himself in front of the TV until Jensen met his eyes. Wasn’t like they’d been paying much attention to the football game. “Chocolate chip cookies?”

“Uh, no?”

“Brownies?”

“No.”

“Pie?” 

“I mean, my mom used to always make this really great, y’know, around Thanksgiving, but I just--nope. Never done that.”

“God, Jensen.” Misha sighed heavily, then returned to his occupation with Jensen’s tiny pantry. What was he looking for, anyway? He doubted the man kept bags of raw almonds lying around in his trailer. “Whatever are we going to  _ do  _ with you?”

“Nothing. I’m good. I’m pretty satisfied with my life as is, free of all baking-related activities--”

“No you are not. You don’t know what you’re missing. It’ll be, like--” he closed the pantry door and turned to find Jensen’s eyes already trained on him; “--a  _ revelation _ . The gates of heaven will open. Angels will sing into your mouth. You’ll be a new man, better for having crafted something so, so  _ pure  _ and  _ good _ \--”

“Okay, enough with the hyperbole.” Jensen batted Misha’s hands away, hands that Misha only then realized were inches away from taking Jensen’s cheeks between them and  _ squeezing _ , like some kind of embarrassing grandmother. He swallowed and stepped decidedly  _ out  _ of Jensen’s personal space, cursing himself for his dramatics. “It’s not like I have time for that shit anyway.”

“I don’t have time to run, and yet.”

Jensen rolled his eyes, but smiled in a way that made Misha’s insides curl with warmth. “Yeah, yeah. Not all of us are masochistic freaks.”

“Keep laughing, Jackles. Just wait ‘til we’re stuck in the woods with a bear hot on our heels--you’ll be the first to go down, and I won’t be sticking around to watch.”

“Jesus, Mish. Nice to know I can add ‘avoiding potential bear maulings’ to my ‘reasons I should take up jogging’ list.”

“Running. Not jogging. Joggers are the ones who find the dead, mutilated bodies of serial killer victims on their midnight slogs-around-the-block.”

“And runners--?”

“Have lots of super-satisfying, kinky sex and are the envy of actors named Jensen Ackles everywhere. Obviously.”

Jensen quirked an eyebrow. “Kinky?”

Oh, Misha would’ve killed to know what had zipped through Jensen’s head just then. “You’re the one who brought up masochism.”

“Shut up.” There was that little private smile, a barely noticeable curve to his lips as he wrapped them around his beer, taking a long, slow swig and flicking his eyes back over to the TV.

“I’ll shut up once we’ve made sure your baking cherry is good and popped.” 

“We?” He snorted. “Don’t think so.” 

“Aw, don’t be a grumpy old sot. C’mon. What’s your favorite?”

“Favorite what?”

“Favorite baked thing. C’mon. Tell me.”

“Fuck, I dunno. I don’t sit around all day thinking about--y’know what, I’ll say pie. How about that.” 

Misha’s smirk very nearly threatened to cleave his face in two. “How very Dean of you.”

“What can I say. Eight years of playing the same guy, you start forget you don’t actually like plaid and convenience store apple pie.”

“And classic rock,” Misha added.

“Okay, shut up. I liked that before.”

“Whatever you say, Dean.”

Jensen snorted, but didn’t reply. Not one to be ignored, Misha let himself fall back on the tiny couch opposite Jensen, propping his feet up on the armrests and letting out an obnoxious sigh, like some petulant teenager. 

“ _ What? _ ”

“So you like pie. Do you by any chance have a favorite kind?”

“What is this, the inquisition?” He twisted his lips in indecision. “Are you gonna tease me if I say apple?”

“Only for the rest of your life.”

“Apple it is then.” 

“Charming.” If Misha was, in fact, helplessly charmed by Jensen’s all-American dessert preferences, he’d take that secret to the grave. “You going out tomorrow?”

“Not planning on it. Why?”

Misha licked his lips and shot Jensen what he hoped was a cool, casual smile, not at all anxious about the invitation he was about to extend. “Why don’t you come over my place, bake something for once in your life?”

Jensen narrowed his eyes. Misha’s heartbeat stuttered, worried for a single, petrifying second that he’d overstepped the bounds of their friendship and would have to slink back to his own trailer with his tail between his legs, knowing that he’d lost  _ this _ , whatever  _ this  _ was--then Jensen’s face cleared, and he shrugged.

“Why the hell not. Long as you got booze, then I’m in.”

Something in him released, only to be replaced by a bubble of excitement, a sick thrill at the thought of having Jensen  _ alone _ , in  _ his  _ apartment. He couldn’t help it. Misha was only human. 

“Of course.”

 

Misha was perusing the apple selection at the local Whole Foods when Vicki called him. 

“Hey, honey,” he greeted her, smiling softly as he turned over a Granny Smith in his hand. The skin was a perfect chartreuse. Like Jensen’s eyes.  

“Hi, babe. How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, fine, I’m fine. Just out picking up some ingredients for tonight.”

“Making something special?”

“You could say that. I’m, uh, having someone over for a little pie-baking expedition this evening.” 

“That someone being…?”

He let out a long exhale, staring at the array of apples before him with something like regret. “Jensen.”

Vicki laughed. He couldn’t help but smile at the sound, even if it was somewhat at his expense. “Oh, Dmitri. Really?”

“Yes, really. I don’t--I don’t know what got into me.”

“I think I can make a pretty good guess.”

“That’s not necessary.” Sighing, he began filling a plastic bag with apples. “And it’s not entirely selfish. He’s never baked in his  _ life _ \--can you believe that?”

Vicki clucked in his ear, all righteous concern. He could practically  _ hear  _ her shaking her head. “You’re not gonna try and seduce him, are you?”

“What? No! Of course not. My intentions are completely innocent.”

“I worry about you. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“C’mon, I’m not stupid. I  _ know  _ he’s married, straight, not interested, et cetera. No harm in admiring from afar, right?”

Silence. Then, “Babe…”

“We’re friends, Vicki. That’s all.” He cleared his throat and set off towards the baking aisle. “What about you? How’re the kids?”

Vicki sighed, a clear _this conversation isn’t_ _over_ as anything. But she went with his attempt at changing the subject, launching into an enthusiastic anecdote from the previous day; and Misha figured that denial was the less painful option, anyway. 

 

He wasn’t anxious. He  _ wasn’t _ .

He was just a little jittery, that’s all. The double-shot cappuccino from Whole Foods might’ve been slightly overkill, given he had the day off. 

It was eight o’clock, and Jensen was on his way over after a long day of shooting, as indicated by a text message he’d sent fifteen minutes ago. Not that Misha was counting. 

Liz Phair played softly from the living room as he finished tidying up, wiping down the kitchen counters and getting rid of the stack of dishes in the sink. He considered changing out of the old band tee and shorts into something nicer, but quickly quashed that line of thought. This was  _ Jensen _ , not the Queen of England. 

Then the doorbell rang, and he found himself all-out running to the door, leaving his last shreds of dignity in his wake. 

“Hey, Mish.” Jensen stood in the doorway with his thumbs hooked in his jeans and his sleeves rolled up, disgustingly good-looking as always. Not that Misha needed to remind himself of that. He knew. “You gonna let me in?”

“Oh. Right.” Slipping into character, Misha plastered on a smile and stepped aside to let Jensen in the apartment. “Took you long enough. I almost started without you.”

Jensen huffed out a laugh. “And what a tragedy that would be.” 

They made small talk for a few minutes--more like banter, really--about work, Jared’s latest shenanigans, et cetera. The usual. On set, the banter was rife with subtle power plays, all sarcasm and (supposedly) witty comebacks, made for the sake of passing the time. Here was different. Here was...more intimate, in a way. Almost awkward. 

Misha should’ve known it would be awkward.

Somehow, they ended up in the kitchen; and Misha figured it was as good a time as any to start setting out the ingredients according to his mother’s old recipe card, from all-purpose flour to the bag of apples he’d just picked up at Whole Foods. 

“Okay,” he announced once he’d finished. “First things first--”

“Dude. Apple juice?”

“What? Apple j--oh, shit! I forgot to pick something up. Dammit.” He leaned back against the counter, throwing his hands up in apology. “Though I might have some tequila.”

“Eh. Maybe later.”

As it turned out, Misha not only did have tequila in his proto-liquor cabinet, but also a half-empty bottle of Jameson whose presence he couldn’t explain nor recall. That was good enough for Jensen. 

“This is good stuff,” Jensen said. “I do love me some well-aged apple juice.”

Misha sipped from the glass Jensen had poured him, winced as the harsh liquid slid down his throat. “Now that you’ve procured your alcohol, shall we start?”

He laughed, for some reason. “Guess you’re really gonna go through with this, huh.”

“Yes,” Misha confirmed; “ _ we _ are going to make an apple pie if it kills me.” Which it might, Misha didn’t say, with Jensen standing in his kitchen looking like  _ that _ .

“Alright then. You lead the way.”

Bolstered by Jensen’s apparent trust in his baking skills, Misha beamed and turned to the array of ingredients on the counter. “Great. So. Pie crust is first.” He gestured for Jensen to join him, and found the man staring at him with the most peculiar half-smile. Good  _ lord _ , he was radiant even in the sickly, yellowish glow of the overhead lights. Misha wasn’t sure if he was turned on or jealous. “I assume you know how to measure flour?”

Apparently, that assumption came a moment too soon. 

“No, you ignoramus, you  _ spoon  _ the flour into the measuring cup, very gently, see? You can’t just--fucking-- _ bulldoze _ it out of there, or it’ll get all packed down and, just--”

“Jeez, Mish, okay. I never claimed to know anything about baking, did I?”

“You didn’t,” Misha conceded as he dumped the proper amount of flour into the mixing bowl. “Can I trust you not to fuck up the half-teaspoon salt?”

Jensen sucked his teeth, but accepted the measuring spoon and upended the salt shaker over it, spraying grains of salt all across the countertop like a dusting of snow. 

“Maybe next time, do that over the sink.”

He grinned, wide-lipped and completely shit-eating. The fucker.

“Anyway. Sugar, and then the butter and ice water. That should be fun. But sugar first.”

Sugar added, Misha gave the mixture a quick stir, then went to the fridge to retrieve a stick of butter. 

“And what am I supposed to do with this?” Jensen asked, eyeing the butter suspiciously. 

“The instructions are right there, ya dingus! Cut it up, put it in the bowl.”

“Okay, Mish.” He chuckled, but accepted the knife Misha handed him and sliced the butter into chunks as instructed. “No need to insult the student, now.”

“Sorry. Not really. But anyway--what does it say? Incorporate butter into flour mixture until it has the texture of coarse sand.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t have a food processor, obviously, but you could probably use a fork. Or your hands.” Seeing Jensen’s confusion, Misha plunged his hands into the bowl and began blending the butter in with his fingers until they were sticky and covered with greasy, floury goop. “See? Easy.” 

“Easy as pie, you might say.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He rolled his eyes and grabbed Jensen’s hands, ignoring the jolt of heat that ran down his spine at the brief contact. 

Finishing the pie crust was slow going, but another fifteen minutes found them wrapping two disks of pie dough in plastic wrap and sliding them in the fridge to chill. Jensen refilled their whiskeys, griping about his greasy hands in what Misha sorely hoped was a lighthearted attempt at annoying his host. Jensen wasn’t a complainer, especially not at work; but this was different. So he smiled and let it go, plunking the bag of apples on the counter next  to the cutting board.

“Next up, peeling all these apples.”

Jensen downed the last of his whiskey, then frowned as he slammed the glass back on the counter. “Shit, really?”

“Yes, really. Welcome to the world of pastry, Jackles.” Misha elbowed Jensen playfully and handed him a paring knife, a pile of apples and a cutting board between them. “I don’t have a vegetable peeler, so, y’know, try not to slice your finger off.”

Jensen chuckled and sidled right up to the cutting board, right into Misha’s personal space like he didn’t give a damn if they stood there with their shoulders brushing for fifteen minutes. 

Misha swallowed. Jensen must’ve heard him, because he glanced over, licked his lips like the stupid, annoying lip-licker that he was. 

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Your proximity is distracting, he didn’t say. 

How embarrassing. 

Then--“Dammit!”

A bead of blood welled up at the tip of Jensen’s thumb. Misha tsked, frowning, and tossed him a paper towel to wipe stave off the blood while he fetched a bandage from the bathroom. 

“Fuckin’ nicked myself. Shit.”

“Should’ve known better than to trust you with that knife.”

“Hey, I’m trustworthy! That knife is a little bitch.”

“That knife is terribly offended to know you would say such vile things about it. Here. I don’t have any Spiderman band-aids on hand, so these will have to do.”

“Thanks. Man, that hurt.”

“Do you want a kiss to make it better?”

Jensen froze; and for a moment, Misha wondered if he’d say yes, if he’d let Misha soothe his thumb with a kiss, maybe let his lips wander to other areas--then he laughed, and the spell was broken.

“More whiskey?”

“Yes, please.”

Somehow, through some miracle of restraint, Misha managed to finish slicing his portion of the apples without breaking down and taking Jensen against the kitchen counter, much as his downstairs brain begged for it with every inhale of Jensen’s infamous musk, every spine-tingling brush of one bare bicep against the other. Oh, he was a teenager with a crush, no use denying it anymore. But he had restraint. He could maintain his professional poise while baking in a tiny kitchen mere inches away from a human manifestation of the golden ratio, no problem. 

So he hoped. 

Apples finished, Misha added the slices to a bowl and added a splash of lemon juice, then pushed the sugar, flour, and cinnamon towards Jensen--“Finish up the filling, would you? And stir  _ gently _ , don’t pound the poor apples into a pulp.”--while he fetched the disks of pie crust from the fridge. 

“Mmm, this is good,” Jensen said, sampling another cinnamon sugar-coated slice of apple, the sight of half-chewed apple in his mouth as he spoke unfortunately doing nothing to reduce his sex appeal. Misha sighed.

“And now,” he said grandly, pushing Jensen aside to make room, “every baker’s favorite part of the pie-making process. Flour, please?” 

Jensen handed him the flour. Misha, to his guest’s surprise, took a handful of the white powder and scattered it across the counter, then rubbed it into a thin coating across the granite. 

“Which is?” Jensen prompted.

“Rolling out the pie crust, obviously. Absolutely delightful. Try not to fuck it up.”

With that, Misha removed a rolling pin from one of the drawers and placed it in front of Jensen, unwrapped a disk of dough, and stood back, a tight-lipped smirk on his face. 

“Um…” Jensen pulled his lower lip between his teeth, glanced at Misha. “And how should I go about this?”

_ On your knees, hands behind your back, those terrible, god-awful lips of yours wrapped around my _ \--“Just. Um.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s easy. And by easy I mean notoriously difficult, but--well, first, put the rolling pin on the dough. Go on, do it.”

Resisting the urge to smite his own forehead, Misha watched as Jensen grasped the rolling pin--he always did like those hands of his, thick-fingered and strong and--and began to roll out the dough, as gently as if he were rolling out glass. 

“C’mon, Jackles, you gotta do better than that!”

Those green eyes flashed when he glanced over at Misha, a smile pulling at his lips. “I’m trying, man.”

“Put some muscle into it! Or are those guns for nothing?”

Jensen choked, seemingly, then laughed--and  _ god _ , why had he said that, anyway? “I sure hope not.”

“Here,” Misha blurted, in a stroke of ill-advised inspiration, “let me show you.”

He grabbed the rolling pin, intent on demonstrating to this green-eyed fucker how it’s  _ done _ , already--only to realize, rather belatedly, that he’d managed to wrap both hands around Jensen’s in the process. 

Alright. That wasn’t so bad. He could play this off. 

He pulled the rolling pin back an inch, then pressed down, his own hands pressing into Jensen’s, their fingers slotting together; and he  _ swore  _ it was unintentional but Jensen didn’t pull away, didn’t so much as flinch. He was lax under Misha’s grip, completely pliant. 

Misha’s heart thundered in his chest. Fuck, this was a bad idea.

“See?” His voice sounded strange, Castiel-rough, so he cleared his throat. “Just gotta--add a little pressure. Get it nice and smooth.”

Back and forth, they rolled out the dough together. Small chunks broke off at the edges, but Misha deftly pressed them back into the slowly-expanding mass of dough, hands always returning to Jensen’s on the rolling pin. His breathing grew shallow, but he ignored it. Sweat dripped down the divot in his spine. Shit, was it really that hot in here?

Halfway through, Misha paused, rested his sweaty palms on top of Jensen’s, squeezed his fingers like they were lovers sharing an intimate moment, not coworkers--both  _ married _ , he might’ve mentioned--with a weird amount of sexual tension. “You think you can do the rest?” he managed. 

Jensen didn’t respond, so Misha looked up.

His eyes were closed, eyelashes fanning over flushed cheeks, mouth parted and so fucking kissable it hurt--but Misha didn’t want to assume, didn’t want the sudden tightness in his pants to lead him to do something he’d regret. 

“Jen? You--are you--”

Green eyes flew open, and-- _ fuck _ . Misha’s heart was beating in triplicate, skin pulled taut with sheer anticipation; because there was no mistaking those wide pupils, no explaining that away, no sir. 

One hand squeezing Jensen’s against the rolling pin, he turned slightly and brought the other up to cup Jensen’s face, to drag a sweaty thumb across those cheekbones, that lightly freckled skin he’d yearned to touch for the last four years. 

“Jen,” he murmured, their eyes locked; “I am trying. So hard.”

“Don’t,” Jensen said in a broken whisper, and that was  _ it _ .

One moment, they were standing against the counter with their hands entwined and bodies awkwardly pressed together as they rolled out a  _ pie crust _ , for fuck’s sake; and the next, Misha had Jensen pushed up against the pantry with his tongue halfway down his throat and one hand digging into the skin underneath that stupid button-down like there was gold buried somewhere across that beautiful torso. Jensen kept his hands on Misha’s waist, only nibbled softly at Misha’s lower lip before letting his host take control. They both knew, somehow, that Jensen wasn’t in control that night. He’d never been.

“Fuuuck.” Saliva stretched between them as they parted, just momentarily, before Misha attached his lips to Jensen’s jaw and started tracing little kisses across it, down his neck to the sensitive skin that drew breathy little gasps from Jensen each time he touched them. “Mish, your  _ mouth _ .” A thumb flicked across his nipple, catching him off guard. “ _ Shit _ . Oh, that’s good. Yeah, touch me, Mish, touch me--”

Misha withdrew his hand from Jensen’s shirt and began unbuttoning it, the other staying firmly attached to the curve of that _fine_ denim-clad ass as he sucked the beautiful, unblemished skin of Jensen’s collarbone, cock stiffening with every appreciative noise Jensen made. God, this was wrong, but he couldn’t possibly let this glorious body go untouched and unkissed, not when Jensen was offering it to him like a goddamn one-man pleasure buffet. 

Soothing the red mark with a kiss--it was small, but enough that the makeup crew would throw a fit--he pulled open Jensen’s shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Their eyes met as the fabric fell away.  _ Fuck _ , he was beautiful, from dusky nipples to the soft pouch below his belly button; but Misha waited, needing the smallest acknowledgment that this was okay, that Jensen  _ wanted _ \--

He nodded, and that was all she wrote.

Perhaps if Misha hadn’t had four years of suppressed carnal desire bottled up inside, he would’ve had the restraint to take his time, bring Jensen to pieces before even touching his dick. That, unfortunately, was not the case.

As it were, Misha pressed one last kiss to that kiss-swollen, fruit-punch mouth and dropped to his knees like he was getting paid. He made quick work of Jensen’s fly and slid off those overly-tight jeans and--

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, watching Jensen’s cock bob free with something like awe. 

“I usually call him Dean,” Jensen quipped, but the words hardly registered.

He wasn’t sure whether to comment on Jensen’s apparent lack of underwear or the fucking  _ massive  _ schlong he’d been hiding all those years; so, instead, he slipped his mouth over the tip and sucked. And holy hell, if he were fifteen years younger he could’ve come right then, just from the warm weight on his tongue and Jensen’s responding groan of pure pleasure. 

Relaxing his throat, he took Jensen deeper until his nose hit the dark curls at the base. Not an easy feat, considering Jensen’s rather significant girth; but he loved it, loved letting his mouth stretch  _ wide _ , loved the salty flavor on his tongue. He looked up through his lashes, loving the way Jensen’s lust-dark eyes locked on his, the way his red-bitten mouth fell open in a suspended moment of anticipation. 

Nothing if not cocky in bed, Misha winked.

“Oh, you-- _ ohhh _ , that’s good.” Jensen moaned his appreciation, and Misha smiled (as well as he could with a dick in his mouth), digging his thumbs into Jensen’s hip bones, pulling that ass towards him like he could swallow every ounce of Jensen’s beauty if only he tried hard enough. Jensen’s fingers worked their way into his hair and pulled, hard and desperate. He needed it, and Misha gave it to him. “So good, darlin’, you’re perfect.” 

_ Perfect _ . He wasn’t sure if perfect was a word he’d used to describe--well, himself, or blowjobs in general--but he’d take the praise, put it in his pocket for a rainy day.

Years of recreational cocksucking had taught Misha well, and Jensen didn’t last long. One teasing touch beyond his perineum, and Jensen went  _ off _ , babbled a warning mere seconds before coming down Misha’s throat with a choked cry. 

He loved it, the taste like sex and the sea. He welcomed the onslaught, swallowed dutifully and dug his fingers deeper into Jensen’s flank as his knees threatened to buckle with the weight of orgasm--and it was gorgeous, he was gorgeous.  

Pulling off, Misha licked Jensen clean, hummed at the flavor that lingered on his palate. 

“ _ Fuck _ .” Jensen’s head thunked against the cabinet. Softly, almost tenderly, the hand behind his head shifted to cup his jaw, wipe a dribble of come from the corner of his mouth. Misha couldn’t deny his fear, unsure of how Jensen would react now that his judgment was no longer clouded by the haze of lust; but this--this was entirely unexpected. Then Jensen smirked, green eyes glittering. “Get up here, you sexy fucker.”

Jensen hauled Misha to his feet, pressed him against the wall with a surprising amount of strength before divesting Misha of his jeans, the friction making Misha cry out until Jensen swallowed the sound with a kiss. The orange boxers were yanked down, and Jensen’s hand was upon him, cool skin creating a tight circle of friction. Misha bucked into his grip, kissed and groped with manic intensity, like he was starved for it. He came in minutes, a gasp on his lips and strange, intoxicating words-- _ yeah, I’m here, darlin’, let go for me _ \--echoing in his mind.

Misha’s chest heaved as he came down. Too soon, Jensen’s hand slipped out from under his shirt and he stepped away, buttoned up his jeans and shirt and washed his hands clean of Misha’s spendings, lashes lowered and eyes down. Misha’s gut twisted at the sight. 

Jensen turned the water off and, as if bracing himself, leaned over the sink on his elbows, letting his head. He sucked in a breath, like the start of the phrase, and Misha was  _ done _ .

“Mish--” Jensen began, but stopped when Misha cupped his face and kissed him, slow and sweet and everything he couldn’t want.

“I won’t help you cheat,” he whispered. “I like you--”  _ maybe more than like you _ , he didn’t say; “--but I won’t do that for you. I can’t.”

Jensen’s eyes flickered between his own, thick tongue darting out to wet his lips. Misha pecked him again, unable to resist. 

“But I do want you. That much should be obvious.”

“Mish--”

“This was wrong, Jen. You know that. Your wife, Danneel, she loves you. I know, I made a mistake; I shouldn’t have let you, shouldn’t have--” 

“She knows, though.”

“What?” Misha withdrew suddenly, like he’d been struck. “Danneel knows--?”

Jensen’s eyes dropped in--was that shame? “She knows I want you.”

“You--you told her? How long?”

To Misha’s surprise, Jensen chuckled, rubbed the back of his quickly-pinkening neck. “I dunno. I kinda--we’d been messing around, just throwing out stupid fantasies, and I just. Y’know. Put it out there. A year ago, maybe.”

Misha’s mind spun. He gripped the countertop, steadying himself. “And?”

“And what? She was, fuck,  _ so  _ fine with it, thought the idea of you ‘n’ me was hot as hell.” He snorted, no doubt reminded of the throngs of fans who agreed with that particular sentiment. “And I just. It made me think about things, y’know, differently.” His eyes darted up to meet Misha’s, wide and nervous. “I wondered if, if maybe…”

“Of course I did.” He laughed breathlessly, incredulously. “How could you doubt that?”

“I was scared, I dunno. I know you ‘n’ Vicki got something going on, some kinda, whatever--”

“Open marriage, yes.”

“--but I didn’t wanna assume.”

Misha wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry; so, instead, he kissed Jensen again, thrilled with the realization that he could now. The floodgates had been opened. He peppered Jensen’s stupid face with kisses, smiling into each one. 

“Jensen, you asshole,” he murmured between kisses. “You have me; how could you not see that?”

“Sure see it now,” Jensen rumbled in reply. His voice vibrated through Misha’s lips, that low, sultry voice sending a jolt down his spine like he hadn’t come not five minutes ago. He wriggled happily; his skin crawled with delight. He knew this feeling. It meant fresh love; it meant something new about to begin.

Somehow, Jensen’s hands returned to his hips, Misha’s roaming the broad, muscular expanse of Jensen’s back with a newfound calm, their desperation sated; their tongues entwined, tasted each other, shared the salt on Misha’s tongue with filthy pleasure. Jensen’s lips were delicious, as plush and soft as they looked. Misha was addicted. 

A minute later--or an hour, he wasn’t sure--Jensen pulled away with a small groan of regret. Misha frowned and darted forward to recapture Jensen’s lips, but Jensen turned away.

“Wait,” he murmured; then, louder, “Mish.”

Misha wasn’t above pouting, not when Jensen’s lips were so fucking  _ kissable _ . “What?”

Smirking, Jensen cocked his head towards the half-rolled pie crust on the counter. “We gonna finish that?”

Misha groaned. “Really? Now?”

“And here I thought you were gonna pop my baking cherry.” 

“Oh, I’ll pop your cherry, alright,” Misha said with a playful ass-slap that made Jensen jump, then grin. 

“I can’t wait.”


End file.
